The Truth About Forever(102)

I was ready. And I think she was, too. But if she wasn't, I could get her through. The first step is always the hardest.

"Okay," I heard Delia say. "Here's what we're going to do…"



"Ho-ly shit," Kristy said, shaking her head. "Now that's some rain."

"Kristy," Delia said in her warning voice.

Caroline sighed. "No, she's right," she said. "It really is."

"Mmrn-hmm," Monica added.

It was, indeed, still raining. Hard. So hard, in fact, that the lights had continued to flicker, although that could have been attributable to the wind, which was, yes, still blowing. Hard. A few minutes earlier, on the TV, our local weather girl, Lorna McPhail, had stood there in front of her Doppler map, eyes wide, as she explained that while a shower or two had been in the forecast, no one had expected this sort of incident.

"Incident?" Caroline had said as Lorna turned back to her map. "This isn't an incident. This is the end of the world."

"Nah," Bert told her as he passed behind her with a trayful of wineglasses, "the end of the world would be much worse than this."

Caroline looked at him. "You think?"

"Oh yeah," he said. "Absolutely."

Now, it was seven sharp, and our first arrivals were still sitting in their cars, optimistically waiting for a break in the torrential downpour. In a minute, they'd get out, come up the walk, and step inside, where everything was ready. The canapes were warming in the oven, the bar was stocked with ice and beverages, the cake that said in red icing WILDFLOWER RIDGE-A NEW PHASE BEGINS! was displayed on the table, encircled by flowers and stacks of brightly colored napkins. Plus, the whole house smelled like meatballs. And everyone loves meatballs.

After Caroline detailed our situation, I'd listened to Delia do what she did best: move into action. Within fifteen minutes, several of the tables and chairs we'd rented had been brought inside and assembled throughout the house ("bistro-style," she'd called it), then topped with thick vanilla-scented candles she'd had stashed in the van from a bridal shower weeks ago. The lights were dimmed in case they went out entirely—while making everything feel somehow cozy—and she'd put Bert and Monica to work doubling up on baking appetizers, reasoning that if people were well fed, they'd hardly notice that they barely had room to turn around. Caroline was sent to find a soap dish, and Kristy was stationed by the door with a tray of full wineglasses to offer up the minute people stepped inside (slightly buzzed people, Delia reasoned, would notice less as well).

Meanwhile, my mother and I were sitting on the edge of her desk, the Kleenex box between us, looking out at the rain.

"I wanted this party to be perfect," she said, dabbing at her eyes.

"No such thing," I told her.

She smiled ruefully, tossing a tissue into the garbage can. "It's a total disaster," she said with a sigh.

For a second, neither of us said anything.

"Well, in a way it's good," I said finally, remembering what Delia had said to me, at that first party, all those weeks ago. "We know where we stand. Now things can only get better. Right?"

She didn't look convinced. But that was okay. So she didn't fully get it yet. But I had a feeling she would. And if not, there was more than enough time, now that this had finally begun, for me to explain it to her.

When we came out into the kitchen a few minutes later, Delia was laying out crab cakes. She took one look at my mother and insisted that she go upstairs and take a hot shower and a few deep breaths. To my surprise, my mother went with no argument, disappearing for a full twenty minutes. When she came back down, hair damp and wearing fresh clothes, she looked more relaxed than I'd seen her in weeks. There is a certain relief in things getting as bad as they could be. Maybe this second time around my mother was beginning to see that.

"What did you say to her?" my sister asked me, as we watched her come down the stairs.

"Nothing, really," I said. I felt her looking at me, but this was partially true. Or true enough.

Kristy was at the front door, tray in hand, as my mother passed her. "Wine?" she offered.

My mother paused, about to demur politely, but instead she took a deep breath. "What is that wonderful smell?"

"Meatballs," I said. "You want one?"

Again, I expected a no. But instead, she reached for a wineglass, took a sip, and nodded at me. "Yes," she said. "I would love one."

Now, as she stood with all of us in the front window, there was one last thing I was wondering about. I'd held off as long as I could, hoping someone would offer an explanation, but finally there was nothing to do but ask outright. "So," I said, still looking out at the cars, "where's Wes?"

I saw Monica and Kristy exchange a look. Then Kristy said, "He had to run some pieces down to the coast this morning. But he said he'd stop by on his way back, to see if we needed him."

"Oh," I said. "Right."

An awkward silence followed this, during which I, and everyone else, just stared out at the rain. Gradually, though, I became aware of someone sighing heavily. Then clearing her throat. Repeatedly.

"Are you okay?" Bert asked Kristy.

She nodded, letting loose with another vehement a-hem. I glanced over at her, only to find her staring at me. "What?" I said.